Gestalt
by MurasakiZetsubou
Summary: A war, a dragon, a curse. Cyrielle must guide the Dragonborn to his destiny and help him save the world twice over, and Farkas must save his love before she is consumed by a daedric curse... OC/Farkas, does not follow game chronology strictly. Rated M for... well, M-rated stuff later. Reviews welcome- sorely needed actually. Discontinued- sorry.
1. Reunion

**This is the first fanfiction I have published on this site. Reviews are welcome, and thank you for giving this a shot!**

* * *

Gestalt

Chapter One: Reunion

A young Nord, clutching a teetering pile of books, slowly made her way out of the Blue Palace. Thanking the guard who opened the doors for her, she was almost out of the courtyard when she was stopped by a courier.

'For your mistress,' he panted. 'Urgent.'

'She's not-' Lydia of Whiterun read the first and only sentence on the parchment.

Later, she was seen riding from the stables- flicking a septim into a delivery boy's hand- in the direction of Markarth.

* * *

'I've no time for silly rumours, Lydia.' Cyrielle dropped the lavender into the bottle and added some water. 'Winterhold's got a new Archmage- Aren died, can you believe it- and some obscure fool's taken up the title. I want to know _why.' _

Vlindrel Hall was a comfortable enough abode: obviously not as grand as Proudspire Manor, but Cyrielle had a problem with inns. She had bought it after becoming a Thane of Markarth: as always, she had refused the housecarl. She only required Lydia, she had professed. This obviously made returning home after months of travelling rather awkward. Cyrielle had spent two days making the house hospitable again.

'The guards of Whiterun say that he killed a dragon,' Lydia pressed.

'Then I must believe that not only is there a Dragonborn to save us from dragons, but that there are now dragons that he must save us from. A most happy coincidence.'

'My Thane, please,' she sighed.

Cyrielle closed her book. 'I'm sorry, Lydia, truly. My patience has been stretched these past few days and I've no right to make you a victim. I ask for your forgiveness.'

'There is nothing to forgive.'

An awkward silence ensued. Lydia moved her hand closer to Cyrielle's, clenched it into a fist and spread it on the table, hurt. She was the one woman who Cyrielle had declared off limits to herself.

Cyrielle coughed. 'We shall travel to Whiterun, then. I'm sure the house requires some love.'

'What about your experiments?' Lydia's voice was small.

'They will keep.'

* * *

Whiterun was a small white city, pure in name and spirit. Or rather, gaining so much profit from trading that it shied away from the political stew that had already boiled over in parts of Skyrim.

'It is much unchanged since we have last been here.' Cyrielle squinted up at the walls, slowing her horse to a canter. 'Do you miss your city, Lydia?'

There was a silence has she considered the question.

'I have witnessed and experienced things that I would not have if I had been left in Whiterun. Now I am travelled, something many other housecarls cannot boast. I think I much prefer our adventures than to have waited at home for your return.' She laughed. 'Especially now that I know that you readily forsake a good honest hearth and a bed.'

Her Thane grinned, eager for the old, easy familiarity. She had been much vexed when Lydia had grown jealous of the many men and women that Cyrielle had flirted with, thinking herself unequal in beauty and power to all. Cyrielle simply had no wish to promise something to her housecarl that she could not sustain: Skyrim hath no fury like a housecarl scorned.

They dismounted, handing the reins over to the stable boy, and stepped through the gates. The Plains District was quiet, the torchlight throwing lunging shadows onto the grey houses. There was no living thing outside, and yet there was... something. Cyrielle cocked her head, listening intently. A guard, harried and sweating, ran down the steps, saw Cyrielle and stopped abruptly.

'Thank Arkay you are home, Thane Cyrielle! Jorrvaskr is under attack!'

Cyrielle immediately beckoned Lydia and the guard to follow, jogging up the stone stairs.

'Attack? By whom?'

The guard faltered, looking guilty. 'I do not know, my Thane. Mistress Aela refuses our help.'

'_Refused? _Are you just stood there?'

'Well, yes…'

'Dibella bless you-'

Jorrvaskr was a mess. Parts of the wooden structure had caved in, splinters hanging haphazardly: the noble doors were flung open, revealing the mess within. On the steps, Vilkas and Aela were repelling a group of attackers. Curious bystanders stood a little away from them, reined in by guards. Disgusted, Cyrielle pushed her way through the crowd, drawing her sword. Dragonbane, long, slim and hungry, glinted in the firelight: she charged, and swiftly beheaded one of Vilkas' opponents. He turned to berate her, then recognised her.

'Cyri!'

'No time for talk, Vilkas, we're fighting for an audience.' Cyrielle ducked, avoiding a sword, and punched a woman in the face. She noted that his mighty weapon swings were slow and heavy, and that Aela- nodding curtly to acknowledge her- was slick with blood.

Vilkas hissed under his breath. 'You must go inside: there are more within. They are Silver Hand, Cyri, and you know why they would come.'

_Silver Hand, ardent defenders of Skyrim, bent on killing all werewolves. _Cyrielle had been made acutely aware of the twins' decision that day. Lydia, from whom she kept no secrets, raised her eyebrows but said nothing, clashing swords with another.

'Cyri, hurry! Farkas- inside-' Vilkas was panting, but the panic in his voice was not for his predicament. He knew his brother's name would strike a chord.

'You must hold up here. I will find him. Lydia-'

'Go, my Thane!'

The banquet hall was cold and dark. The opposite doors hung heavy and impotent, and through them she could see Ria and Njada battle yet more Silver Hand, though they knew not what for. She ran to the stairs, noting that the doors here too were broken. However, she paused at the door when she heard… _growling _and an enraged roar. She entered slowly.

Farkas was stood in the middle of the hall, muzzle and elongated claws covered in blood, towering over Kodlak, who was not moving. His attackers had circled him, and even as he swatted one away, his head connecting with a table with a sharp crack, another slashed his side, cackling. Cyrielle's focused on her.

Two strides and she was bought close to the woman, Dragonbane spun once before being steadied by her right hand- for power and stability- neatly slicing her, left shoulder to right hip, in half. Her face froze in shock. But Cyrielle was already turning, ducking to dodge an attack. Dragonbane flew up, coming to rest in a man's stomach: he staggered, dropping his sword, inches away from stabbing Farkas. An angry yell sounded from her right and she spun, just blocking another sword. The awkward position dislocated two fingers on her left hand, which had borne the weight of the attack, causing her to loosen her grip on her sword. Her attacker disarmed her easily, lightly slicing her belly.

Sharp pain poured from the wound, causing Cyrielle to black out for just a second. Clutching it, she took a step back, trying to find her sword. She could just hear a deep-throated growl and the man clutched his face in horror, his cheeks in ribbons. He stumbled, and Farkas savagely bought a foot up and crushed his neck. In her peripheral vision, she saw the fourth and last Silver Hand crunch into the wall and slump there.

Large, furred hands held her- Cyrielle gritted her teeth, the shallow cut stinging- and Farkas fell to the floor, laying a hand on her stomach. She tried to turn, to see him better, and saw that he was covered in slashes. He whimpered, his red eyes yearning and hungry and angry, and she bought a maimed hand to his face, calming him as he shook with pain. _How heady the smell of blood must be to him._

'Farkas. Kodlak... I'm sorry.'

He shuddered then, and reverted back to his human form, and his wounds were immediately more jarring. Stroking her maimed hand, he pulled her closer to him.

'Thanks for saving me... Cyri. Couldn't have picked... a better moment.' His streaked face was haggard.

'I came as soon as I could, my love. Thank you for waiting until I got home.'

He laughed, spluttering blood. His grip grew loose, and his eyes were heavy.

'Farkas! Stay, please!' He lay on the floor, closing his eyes. Cyrielle gulped back the panic rising in her throat. She too closed her eyes, trying to summon the magicka she had long forsaken, anything to heal Farkas. It would not come. Shakily standing upright, she lifted him, groaning at his weight. Staggering to the stairs, she almost missed his whisper.

'Yes, Farkas?'

His grin was weak. 'Now... you know... how it feels.'

* * *

Arcadia strode around the banquet hall, applying salves and tying off bandages, occasionally reaching into a deep pocket to offer a potion. Lydia stayed out of the way.

Silver Hand corpses lay loosely piled into a corner: no one but Arcadia had been allowed into the beer hall. The Companions lay huddled like, well, _wolves. _Farkas and Kodlak lay like patriarchs in the centre, near the fire, even Whitemane swaddled lovingly with blankets. Tilma fussed over the warriors like a mother hen, especially over Aela: her scantily clad body was tattoed with gashes.

She looked to her Thane, stood on the other side of the table with Vilkas and a young mage, dressed in simple robes. Tall, he hunched, trying to make himself seem as small as possible. His light blue eyes were focused squarely on the small Breton. Cyrielle's, Lydia noticed, continuously flickered to Farkas, and were as serious and hard as malachite.

Lydia had seen the Breton, watched her through a child's eyes as she had appeared in Whiterun, more often than now. She had known she was a traveller, a fierce warrior, and yet she was always friendly to all. Quick-witted, she could make children and adults laugh alike. Her favourite children though, had by far been Vilkas and Farkas. She had heard how Cyrielle had saved them from a burning home; how she, as an adventurer, had been unable to look after them herself and so had bought them to Jorrvaskr; how she could not keep herself away for more than a month; how she always had time for them, how she loved them. She remembered how they had stood at the gates at the decided time, scanning the horizon, and how she had never failed to come.

She remembered them growing into young men, how the girls could not avoid peeking at them from underneath eyelids. Vilkas was the smooth talker, the mischievous one: Farkas was open, kind hearted and, if she could admit it, a little slow.

Now that she knew Cyrielle, she could judge the love she had for the twins. In Solitude, Cyrielle had taken many lovers, casting them away before they were done with her. In Whiterun, she had taken no lover: she had no time for anyone else. None except Farkas. She could remember that argument they had in front of Jorrvaskr, too. How she had vehemently refused him, how he had kissed her. How she had stepped into his arms and cried. How she had left him the very next morning, and avoided Whiterun for half a year.

Cyrielle beckoned her over.

'This is Eyjolf, Archmage and Dragonborn extraordinaire.' She waved vaguely at him. 'Eyjolf, my housecarl and friend, Lydia.'

'I arrived too late to be of any help. This attack was my fault.' His voice was not so deep, but level.

'Nonsense.' Vilkas' face was pinched with worry. He too kept glancing over at his brother.

'You cannot stay long at Whiterun: who knows what danger still lies in wait for you. We leave in the morning for Ivarstead: you shall speak to the Greybeards.'

'Of course. I am honoured to travel with you, Thane Cyrielle. You are well written in books.'

She snorted. 'Don't believe everything you read, lad.'

Farkas stirred then, his bleary eyes focusing first on his brother and then finding the red-haired Breton. She looked up and immediately came to his side.

'Farkas.' She gently stroked his face. 'Arcadia. Farkas must go to his room.'

Arcadia pursed her lips, desperately trying not to smile. Even Farkas himself snorted. 'Very well. Just don't... strain him too hard. He's not fully healed just yet.'

'Of course. I am just concerned,' she finished lamely, 'for his comfort.'

* * *

'For your information, I am indeed comfortable.' Cyrielle smiled at him.

'I am glad.'

'Perhaps-'

'Farkas, no. Arcadia's orders.'

He grinned at her. 'Nothing that does me justice, love. Just,' he ran his knuckles lightly up her waist, 'something to welcome you home.'

'Lie on your front, my sweet.'

'Ah. Now that, love, I'm not particularly interested in…'

Cyrielle was grinning now. 'Farkas, pick your mind out of the gutter and do as I say.' She was rummaging in his drawers, trying to find a small bottle. Her hand closed around something small and sharp. Farkas watched her pull out an amulet of Talos.

'He watches over questing travellers, Cyri.' His dark eyes were sad. 'I had to.'

Cyrielle, glancing at the axe, tucked it into her pocket. Reaching into the cabinet again, she found what she was looking for. 'There is no need to pray for me, love. I am capable.'

'You are sometimes gone so long I worry that I will have to mourn without ever knowing where your body lies.'

She straddled him, hearing him sigh as her naked flesh touched his. She rubbed the oil on her hands and gently massaged him, exploring the broad planes of his back. She well knew that restoring the body was not enough: often the patient was riddled with aches and pains for days. Truth be told, she just wanted to touch Farkas again, to remind his body of hers. Leaning forward, she whispered in his ear.

'I will always come back to you, Farkas. You are the man that I cannot leave, I swear.'

He turned, facing her again. His face was feebly illuminated by candlelight. It was always like this, the night before she had to leave. Neither of them wished to contemplate living without one another. She settled onto him, and he embraced her. She lay awake as he stroked her back, her shoulders, and she lay awake as she heard his breathing grow steady.


	2. The Thalmor

Chapter 2 Thalmor

'Adeline!'

Farkas had been ready. Clutching Cyrielle in his arms, he rocked her until she escaped from her nightmare, gasping. She whirled around, searching Farkas' face blindly with eyes as large and frightened as a doe's. He stroked her cheek, waiting for her to relax. She was home. She was safe.

He had not known of her nightmares until the night they had first lain together. As a child, he had simply fallen asleep, and woken to find her still sat in her chair, waiting for them. As an adult, he had noticed how little she slept, and how she tried to sleep away from others. She brushed off his questions about this 'Adeline' and he often wondered who she was. A sister, a lover? Cyrielle was alone in the evenings and the morning, but Farkas was always there if he could help it. He knew that she did not truly want to be lonely.

Cyrielle stood to light a candle. The gentle light showed off her body, which was neither tall nor slender. Cyrielle's shoulders were broad, her waist coming in before her hips flowed outward. As she turned to regard him, he could see the flex of the muscles in her stomach, the long scar that ran from underneath her left breast to her hip. A warrior woman.

'You are beautiful,' he murmured sleepily.

Saying nothing, she went to him as he sat on the edge of the bed. He kissed her stomach, the bottom of her small breasts, and she cradled her head in his hands.

'I shall ride this day, my love.'

'Indeed you shall,' he said, chest rumbling. His hands slipped to her thighs. Cyrielle laughed, moving away. She grabbed her armour.

'Get dressed, Farkas. I shall use Vilkas' room, because he is a gentleman.'

'You did not specify your desire for a gentleman, my sweet!' He called after her as she closed the door, winking.

* * *

Farkas was waiting at the stables with his brother and Eyjolf. He glanced at the Dragonborn curiously: he had known of his birthright almost straightaway, but had always been suspicious of the usefulness of his magery in the Companions. He could not deny its strength, however, now he knew that he was openly acknowledged as a great mage. He would be a good travelling companion for Cyrielle.

She strode towards them then, Lydia a step behind. Her distinctive armour flashed in the morning light: Farkas had never seen any other wearing anything like it. Her only explanation was that her armour was very old, and a gift from a friend. The stable boy ran to her, handing her the reins of Nightrun, her black destrier.

Vilkas clapped Cyrielle warmly on the shoulder. She turned, placing a hand on Farkas' chest, and he gladly ducked and kissed her deeply. Both brothers grinned at his treachery.

'What, so eager to get rid of me already? I'll set up camp outside of Jorrvaskr the next time I visit, I promise. Do you have a horse?' she asked Eyjolf.

'I'm afraid I don't travel much outside of the cities, so I've had no reason to buy one.'

'Well, ah, perch on the back of Lydia's, I'm sure she won't mind.'

'I knew I was right in packing the double saddle.'

'Yes, yes, Lydia, gloat later.'

Farkas, smirking slightly, turned and mounted Halldor. Younger than Nightrun, he was shy, not wanting to anger the large horse. Cyrielle finally noticed something was wrong.

'The Dragonborn needs a companion, surely. I offered him and he acquiesced.'

Cyrielle narrowed her eyes at the mage, who grinned sheepishly. 'I suppose there will be no changing your mind?'

'Lydia is your housecarl, milady. There's no guarantee she will protect me.'

Cyrielle growled, galloping off. After a moment, Farkas followed her.

* * *

They were probably fifteen minutes from Riverwood. Farkas spurred his horse on, finally catching up to Cyrielle.

'This is exhilarating, is it not? I rarely ride on horseback, even more rarely with friends. It is an enjoyable experience.'

'Not when those friends deceive you, love.' Her face was stormy but her eyes glittered, and Farkas knew he was forgiven.

'I pity Eyjolf. Lydia is crippled with shyness amongst strangers.' She turned back to look at the young housecarl and her ward, both sitting in an uncomfortable silence.

'Will we rest at Riverwood or ride on?'

'It would be a little-deserved rest, but one much appreciated, I think.'

They stopped, and Farkas looked around, drinking in the trees and the water. He had travelled here often, but never with Cyrielle. It felt good to be with her, to share in her experiences. He had always awaited her and her tales, but no more.

The rocky mountains were very close, and Farkas knew that taking the wrong turn would result in a broken ankle for his horse, at the least. The wood was sparse, but the midday sun cast strange shadows amongst the trees, large enough to hide wolves.

'I do not know whether Cloudstride can take much more of this, my Thane.' Lydia slowed to a gentle trot as she neared the pair, and Cyrielle nodded.

'Dining at the inn would be more of a gain than a loss for us all, anyway.'

Eyjolf spoke up for the first time this morning. 'Ah, I do not know if I am still welcome in the inn…'

'Oh, and why is that?' Cyrielle seemed genuinely interested.

'The bard, Sven, is not much taken with me, I'm afraid. He- ah, how can I say this- we are no longer on speaking terms.' His face, rueful but amused, clearly showed that he did not want to say any more.

'Then let us hope your altercation does not ruin our appetites.' Cyrielle made to go, then abruptly stopped.

'Sometimes,' she declared, 'I wish I was not so suspicious.' Nightrun stepped closer to him, snorting worriedly.

'Lydia, lead on to Riften, alright? Do not stop for anyone, and stay quiet.'

'My Thane-'

'Please trust me. Go.' The housecarl's mount trotted away, Lydia looking back but once. Cyrielle glanced at Farkas.

'You too, love. This I must handle alone.'

'Who is coming? I will not leave you.'

'Farkas, my fate is not yours to share!'

A small group of riders crested the small slope they had ridden over maybe five minutes ago. The elf in front wore billowing black robes. They rode hard, straight to him and Cyrielle: drawing closer, Farkas saw that his thin face was cruel and smirking.

The urge to transform, to slay these elves and take Cyrielle away- away from elves, from the Dragonborn, from the stirrings of civil war- was overwhelming. His blood roared in his ears.

'Farkas.' Her gentle gauntleted hand closed around his. 'My magic is no longer enough to hold them for long.'

'Magic? I thought-' An elf drew back his bow, aiming for the pair, but missed. Nightrun started to move, hooves stomping wildly.

'I will find you, I swear! Cyrielle-'

'Go!' Her voice was a roar, and her face was frightened fury. 'You are the Dragonborn's companion- aid him!' His mount ran, striding away from the Breton, and he saw that one elf- for they were all elves, he realised- pulled away from the group to engage him. He looked back, and saw that Cyrielle had stopped, and was now facing the group, closing in fast. The leader had his arm raised, about to cast a spell-

'Faas... Ru... Maar!'

He turned sharply, almost causing his horse to overturn, to better witness the mayhem before him.

The elves' horses were in a frenzy, rearing, galloping desperately away. Even his pursuer's horse misbehaved. The riders failed miserably to placate them, and the robed elf fell to the floor: a part of Farkas wished that he would be trampled. However, he finished his spell, and a shock of thunder struck Cyrielle straight in the chest and she fell, her horse fleeing.

Farkas rode on, tears in his eyes whipped away by the wind. As the sun reached its apex, he caught Lydia and Eyjolf, the mage getting ready to blast him off his horse: their faces were tight. None asked for Cyrielle. They did not stop, nor slow down, until they reached the gates of Riften.

The guard, attempting to levy a gate tax, was swiftly knocked down by Farkas. Lydia and Eyjolf hurried on, the housecarl taking care not to step on the unconscious guard.

'We begin our search tomorrow, understand?'

'Farkas, we do not even know where she is! She could be anywhere in Skyrim by now-' He whirled to face the young housecarl.

'Think you that I shall leave her to her death? Those elves-'

'Elves? In black robes?' It was Eyjolf who spoke, Lydia having turned away. Farkas gave a curt nod.

'Aldmeri Dominion. They seek the Blades, and worshippers of Talos.'

'Blades? A legend. Cyrielle is neither.'

'There are those who believe otherwise, Farkas. Thane Cyrielle's choice in armour may have been a fatal affectation.'

'She wears it to honour a friend-'

'Even worse. She will suffer for nothing.' Farkas grew infuriated at the Dragonborn's matter of fact tone, but his eyes were serious.

'Farkas, I know how you feel for her. She is also an old and wise mage, a warrior. We need people like her- people with sense- in Skyrim, _now. _We will search for her, do not worry.'

'How do we find her?'

Eyjolf's face was grim, but one corner of his thin lips raised into a cynical smile. 'I have friends here in Riften. They are _extremely _talented in finding lost things.'

Farkas left it at that.

* * *

**Alright, two things: one, I know that the ****_Dismay _****shout probably doesn't work on multiple targets, but I used artistic license. Secondly, the plot should start heating up once the Thieves' Guild recieve their payment...**


	3. Basement

Farkas sat alone in the Bee and the Barb, nursing a flagon. The mead was good, rich, but he did not like where it had come from. He did not like this city, its run down walls barely restraining the hectic citizens, buzzing in their hive, worshipping their shadow queen. Farkas hated the corruption, the underhandedness that was prevalent in this city, its lifeblood.

He had been here a week.

Eyjolf had asked for help in rescuing Cyrielle. Brynjolf had said no. He remembered how he had torn himself out of the dingy inn, how he ran out in to the forest and transformed, taking out his rage on the beasts of the Rift, bandits, anything that crossed his path. He remembered lying crumpled on the undergrowth, sobbing, wringing his hands.

Cyrielle. Cyrielle was gone, she was hurt, she was alone. All this strength and purpose was useless: she was lost, and no one could help her.

* * *

'Perhaps this time you'll be more forthcoming, my dear.' Falerion tilted her chin up with one long, tapered finger. 'Tell me about the Blades and you'll be out of here in a second.' Leaning back on a pillar, he gazed absent-mindedly at Farkas' amulet of Talos.

Cyrielle snorted. She hung by her wrists, shoulders dislocated, in her basement. It was pitch dark, one sputtering candle on a table the only source of light. The elf's whispers and her screams echoed oddly in the room, making her torture intimate, fearful. She could not see his face, only hear his slippers on the flagstones until they were almost nose to nose. She feared the dark almost as much as his return, fearing her tools, her forge, her weapon racks: all had turned against her, serving their new elven master. When he was done, his back melted into the shadows, and she was alone, the light dying. Then Adeline took over, her shrieks, the wet crunching of her lover's legs keeping her company.

She knew not how long she had been prisoner in her own home. The Stormcloaks could take Solitude and she would not notice. Her world had shrunk to damp candlelight, rusty hooks and the mercy of Falerion.

'The Blades are people of legend, wiped out by the likes of you, elf.'

'I see. And this amulet?'

'Taken from a bandit's corpse in the Reach, as I had said. I grow tired of explaining to you.'

'And your… _odd _use of magic?'

'Anyone with half a brain and access to books could learn that, Falerion. What are they teaching in your schools these days?'

The elf laughed pleasantly, picking up a long, thin dagger from the table. Still smiling, he faced her: he slowly ran the blade down her body, starting from her neck, just hard enough to draw blood. Cyrielle gritted her teeth.

'Quiet today, my love? Reluctant to disturb the neighbours, maybe?' He leaned close, describing what he would do to her. As he whispered, the dagger pierced her skin, and he twisted.

One hand glowing green, Falerion sure not to kill her, he began the interrogation proper.

* * *

'I'm sorry Farkas.'

'When will they be back?'

'Don't worry, lad. They'll come home soon as Mercer Frey's found lying face down in the snow.'

'I thought you thieves didn't kill.'

Delvin's face darkened. 'We're a family, Farkas. You don't steal from your own. But don't worry,' he said, slapping him on the back. 'As soon as they're back, we'll help you with Cyrielle.'

* * *

_The floor is cold._

Cyrielle was surprised to find herself slumped against a pillar: had her wrists grown thin enough to escape the shackles? She tried to lift her head, but the light blinded her.

'Come, my lovely rose.' Hands lifted her by her armpits- she suddenly grew ashamed of the state of her body- and eased her into a chair. She tilted her head, her hair blocking out most of the light. It was lank and greasy.

_Later. I will escape, and I shall take a bath._

Those same hands now clenched her shoulders: she screamed as they popped into place. She tried to huddle into a ball, shivering with cold. There was a rustle, and then a warm cloak settled around her body.

'F-Farkas?'

He only chuckled darkly, sitting down next to her. She tried to look into his face but everything was blurry: she tried to raise a hand, touch him, but her body refused out of spite. Her heart almost burst from relief.

_I am saved. Farkas... I knew... I waited..._

As Cyrielle slowly focused her eyes, he picked up a spoon. The porridge smelled more wonderful than any other food she had ever known. Lydia must have stayed away from the kitchen.

'Thank... you...'

Another chuckle. 'Cyri, my love, tell me about the Blades.'

_What? _'Please... food...'

'Tell me all you know.'

'I know nothing! ...Farkas...' She could not even cry, she was so thirsty.

He gently kissed her forehead. 'Then I'm afraid that I'll have to feed you.'

Her body revolted against the food, but he made sure to feed her small spoonfuls. After a while, he offered her a glass of water, quietly admonishing her when she tried to drink too much.

Cyrielle had never been tortured before. She could not think of anything worse. But Farkas had saved her. Had come for her.

Perhaps she could tell him about Adeline.

Her fingers brushed the back of his hand, shyly. She must smell terrible.

_Nine Divines- poison- _

Cyrielle staggered out of her chair, stumbling onto the floor on her foal legs. Her stomach churned.

'Farkas-' She looked up into his face, and saw only amber eyes.

The porridge came up easily enough. Later, she was on all fours, her guts threatening to spill out of her mouth. Retching out bile, she collapsed, and Felerion brushed the hair out of her eyes.

'My love, why do you do this to yourself?' He was tutting. 'Back on the rack we go, eh?'

* * *

_The floor is cold._

Farkas remembered the days of his youth as he waited with Vilkas on the front gates of Whiterun. How their legs had sometimes grown so tired they had sat, tired and hungry, but how it mattered not when Cyrielle arrived, her smile and her hair brighter than any torch. In those days it seemed sweet rolls had spilled out of her pockets endlessly, and laughter had flowed like nectar.

But now the floor was cold, and Cyrielle would not come.

He looked to his left, watching Lydia. She was perched on the very edge of a chair, staring at nothing outside. She loved Cyrielle too.

He could recall his first impression of her, the jealousy mixed with the genuine dislike. But Cyrielle-

'Farkas, come to the Ragged Flagon.' Delvin's face was a mask. 'They're back.'

* * *

'Names, Cyrielle.'

_'Hush, my love. Now we are together, yes?'_

'No- Adeli-' Cold hands grabbed her face: Cyrielle screamed in terror, body trying to wrench out of Falerion's grasp: he stopped, looking to his superior in confusion. 'A-Adeline… I'm… sorry…'

'Who is Adeline?

'A friend in her youth. She's only started hallucinating quite recently.'

Cyrielle was sobbing quietly, flinching from an invisible person.

_'You ran away, my love. Left me alone in the dark.'_

'She broke too soon, Falerion.'

'I trusted the reports, madam. I expected her to put up more a fight.'

_'But I love you, Cyri.'_

'Besides, I think she's telling the truth. She knows nothing of consequence.'

_'Did you really think you could escape?'_

'Very well. Spread word of her location. We might as well catch the Dragonborn before we get rid of her.'

* * *

'We'll sort out your payment once the job's done,' Brynjolf shook his head. 'Seeing as so many of this little group seems to be best friends with the guild.' Delvin will come with you.' The bald man nodded. 'But first, we have to locate her.'

'That could take forever!'

'Farkas, I've had friends whispering things to me since you arrived. We'll find her soon enough.'

* * *

Farkas watched the Dragonborn bring the inn to raucous applause with his baritone. An accomplished mage and a bard to boot, at such a young age too. Although one never really knew with mages. Just look at Cyrielle. 'Goodnight, all.'

Farkas was now sat on his bed. It was not quite dark, and yet he forgot what he had done all day. He felt as though he were suspended in time, and that made him sick. Cyrielle's life had not paused to wait for him. She could not have waited for a month. Head in his hands, he despaired. Staying out of her business for almost thirty years, and as soon as he's allowed into her life, she's captured.

But what if this was her lifestyle? She had always come home, tired but whole. Cyrielle kept herself to herself. Is this what she had suffered for the empire all this time?

'Farkas.' His head whipped up, startled. His room was dark and he was confronted by a pair of long, shapely legs. _Familiar _legs.

'Astrid?'

'It took me a long time to find you. I thought you'd have grown into Jorrvaskr by now. Thanks for not visiting, by the way.'

'What did you want to find me for?'

'Well, apart from the fact that your brother is scared witless about you and Cyrielle…'

'Vilkas!' Farkas had completely forgotten about his twin this past month. Then again, he had forgotten about a lot of things, blocked things out.

'I've just been to Solitude.'

'And?'

'The Thalmor have seized Proudspire Manor.' Astrid gave him a pointed look. 'Ambassador Elenwen's back at the embassy, but her pet Falerion's been seen walking around that area with a smug look on his face.'

'They took her _home?' _

'Better than asking to use the Hold's interrogation room. Elisif may be a pawn but even she won't stand for such a blatant insult.'

It was Farkas' turn to stare. 'What were _you _doing in Solitude?'

Astrid sighed, pacing the room. 'Family issues, Farkas. But,' her face darkened, 'After this commission, we'll be fine again. Back to the good old days.'

He knew to leave it at that.

'So, Thane _Cyrielle, _eh? What could you possibly want to do with such a scholarly whore?'

'Astrid, don't.'

But she would not stop. 'She's been to Falkreath too, you know. I know all about her and her _ghost. _That's her excuse to go banging her way around Skyrim, by the way.'

'I know about Adeline.'

Her face was mocking. 'Oh do you, Farkas? Because I think she's using you like everyone else around here.'

'Thank you for the information, Astrid.' Farkas was surprised to find that he was stood up too. 'I think you should go.'

'Farkas.' She was stood with one foot out of the door. 'Don't get involved with these people. It's beyond you. Go back to Whiterun, live your life, let these people live theirs. You don't have to die for the Empire.' When he didn't turn, Astrid left.

He sighed.


	4. Full Circle

Chapter 4: Full Circle

_'Cyrielle?'_

_She opened her eyes. The cave was dark, feeble torches illuminating the nooks and crannies instead of the wide expanse of wet rock. She was lying, her head on Adeline's wet, mangled thighs. She was confused: why was she on the floor?_

_ Why could she not feel her legs?_

_ 'You are the same as me now, love.'_

_ 'What?'_

_ 'Cyrielle, my dear.' Her kind fingers brushed her cheeks. 'Together until the end of time. This is what you wanted, was it not?'_

* * *

_Soon. _

Farkas leaned against the cold walls of the Bard's College, staring at the majestic house opposite, slick stones shimmering like obsidian in the torchlight. The moon hung heavy and ripe above the city tonight. Solitude was indeed beautiful, larger than any city he had ever seen, but like its name suggested, it was cold, austere. Hanging over the sea like a hungry predator, it exuded power and aloofness in equal amounts. Its sense of importance was, as always, a façade: the squabbling, the merchants, the schisms were equal to those of Riften.

But Solitude was the place that Cyrielle had settled into. Its endless disguises must have called to her, its large population something to blend into. It must've been easy: everyone in Solitude seemed to have something to hide. He had accompanied Eyjolf to the Blue Palace to pick up some books. The court wizard, Sybille, had seemed normal enough, though far too young to be such an accomplished mage: just like every other mage he had met, really. It was only later, as they strolled into the courtyard, that he was told that Sybille was also a vampire.

'And she's still allowed in court?'

'Of course. Where else are we going to get a mage like that?'

'But she's a vampire, Eyjolf!'

The mage chuckled. 'We've got enough prisoners to sate her thirst. Trust me; Sybille's not the person you ought to be worrying about here.'

Farkas resisted the urge to stare at the people around him.

'Excuse me, but are you Farkas of Jorrvaskr?' He looked up to see a small group stood a little away from him. The woman who had spoken, a Redguard, introduced herself as Aia, a Bard.

'Yes. Why do you ask?'

The man, another Redguard, kept his eyes fixed on the cobblestones. A sense of foreboding washed through Farkas. How did they know about him?

Aia clapped her hands in delight, turning to the other woman, an older lady in fine clothing. 'I knew it, Pantea! "A saber's gait/ A child's eyes/ A lover's strength": _A Coward's Redemption _is a firm favourite amongst sappy audiences this season. Yes,' she was nodding with glee, 'Cyri wrote a song about her most beloved!'

Pantea nodded. 'I challenged her to a duel, you see. I forgot that she and her lover were formidable Bards in their time.'

'I knew there were things I forgot to mention to him.' Eyjolf was smiling.

Aia threw a filthy glance at her male friend: his face was still averted. 'Surely one of Cyrielle's _chosen _need no reminding of the flame-headed Breton and her silver _tongue-' _

'That's enough, Aia.' Pantea bowed, a stiff, regal jerk at the waist, and motioned for her group to move on. 'May you find what you seek in Solitude, Farkas.' Her gaze bored into his, and her eyes quickly flicked to the large house down the street. He had wondered whether she was Cyri's friend or whether she was just looking for a way to undermine the Thalmor.

Delvin stepped out of the shadows, flicking a lockpick out, jiggling until he heard a click. Farkas strode over, trying to peer into the neighbour's houses. He still did not understand how thieves could just walk up to a house and pick the lock without anyone noticing. Delvin had mentioned something about daedric princes and luck and Farkas had decided it was better not to know. He had watched the guard's paths anyway.

'I'd rather we go through separate entrances, to be honest,' the bald man whispered, 'Better chance of one of us surviving if he's laid a trap on the doors.' Eyjolf and Lydia appeared from the other side of the street. Eyjolf shrugged at the thief's incredulous look.

'I doubt the guards ever look in here. It'd actually be the safest place to hide in once we've saved Cyrielle.'

The door swung open: there were no runes on the floor. Delvin raised a hand, cautioning the group, and put a tentative foot on the dusty flagstones.

Nothing happened. No one was home.

'Look at these footsteps.' Large and slim, they lead down the stairs.

'That's our blacksmith's room.' Lydia's eyes were wide. 'The smelter, the forge… they're all there.'

The basement was pitch black and smelled of human filth and burned flesh. After a moment's hesitation, Lydia grabbed a torch and shoved through, throwing the room into sharp relief. Farkas felt Eyjolf jerk away next to him, and Lydia poorly stifled a gasp.

At the very end of the room, tied to one of the weapon racks, hung a spectre. Her body, pale and thin, was masked by the shaggy mane of red hair that also obscured her face. Dried blood coated her skin but, Farkas saw, she had no scars. Her skin was smooth and seamless. Daring to go closer, he touched her chin gently, tilting her face upward to him. Her eyes were blank and glassy; the quietest rasp forced itself through her lips. The woman was the faintest shade of Cyrielle.

'Call for a healer, now!'

Lydia ran out of the room. 'We've healing potions upstairs.'

Farkas snapped the ropes, catching the slim body that crumpled lifelessly to the floor. Cyrielle had been toned, athletic, scarred: the woman in his arms was emaciated, a poor working lady from the Windhelm slums, maybe.

'Cyrielle, love, can you hear me?' But the husk just stared up at him, no expression on her face. Easily held up by one arm, he laid his other hand over her eyes, climbing into the brightly lit bedroom, sumptuous but dusty. Farkas had always imagined this room, and it exceeded all his expectations. However, the ruined owner stole all of his attention now. She did not move into a more comfortable position on the bed: Cyrielle lay as if dead. Farkas smoothed her hair, a small part of him awed that he still loved this woman though she was a shadow of the warrior she was just a month ago.

'I'm sorry, Farkas.' He turned to witness Eyjolf at the door, arms crossed, brows beetled. 'My training, I never covered…' he looked away, ashamed.

'It's not your fault, Harbringer.' His first use of the mage's rightful title.

Lydia gently dropped a bag full of potions onto the bed. Uncorking a vial, she forced Cyrielle to drink the potion drop by drop. She then did the same with a glass of water: her Thane almost choked, but Lydia persevered.

'Draw her a bath, Lydia. Eyjolf, watch over the house. Let no one in.'

The housecarl glanced up. 'Where are you going?'

Farkas made no answer, and walked out of the house. He remained hidden in the shadows, not too far from the table on the terrace. Sure enough, a tall, robed figure made his way to the manor. Farkas saw amber eyes widen upon seeing his face before he slammed his head against the wall. This is the second person I've had to pick up from the floor this evening, he commented to himself, hitching up his load.

He had made sure not to kill the elf, restraining his boiling fury.

But, he thought, smiling, it's worth the wait.

He lashed the unconscious elf to Cyrielle's weapon rack and sat, waiting for him to wake up. The elf seemed unperturbed at his situation.

'Ah, Farkas. It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.' The elf smirked at him, orange eyes glowing. 'I'm Falerion, though I'm sure Cyrielle's already-'

Farkas bought his hand down with a savage slap, cutting him off. Falerion spat the blood onto the warrior's boots. He wiped it onto the elf's robes.

'I've no magical training,' he whispered, rage making his voice rough, 'but rest assured that I'll do my very best to squeeze a month's worth of torture into this evening.'

'Kill me, and you'll be as wanted as your lover! My kin will hunt you down, and you'll know the same pain as that redhead slut, be just as broken as her.' Falerion's face was now twisted in hatred. Farkas simply smiled.

'More incentive to enjoy this as much as possible, then.' He unsheathed the dagger at his belt. 'Now, try to keep quiet. Cyrielle is resting upstairs.'

* * *

**That was a lot harder to write than it should've been. After Cyri's recovered, we should be seeing some province-saving action. Should.**


End file.
